


My Way Home is Through You

by brittyelaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sam Ships It, Supportive Sam, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittyelaine/pseuds/brittyelaine
Summary: After Cas unilaterally makes a gut-wrenching decision meant to keep the Winchesters safe, Dean deals with the aftermath and the struggles of finding himself again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This started about a month ago when I was in a really bad place emotionally and in a horrible mood and wanted everyone to be miserable, too. My husband, bless his wonderful shipper heart, convinced me to let Dean and Cas be happy. I eventually obliged and pulled this whiskey-soaked angst-fest back into the sunshine. 
> 
> Happy Birthday, Dean Winchester. You deserve some love and happiness.

**March**

Dean wakes in a storm of sweat and terror, his breathing erratic. His t-shirt is soaked through and clinging to his clammy skin. The sheets, kicked away at some point in the night, lay in an unceremonious puddle on the floor. When he reaches for the other side of the bed, it’s muscle memory guiding his hand. It takes just a split second for his _actual_ memory to catch up, and the pain hits him again, all at once, like a wave breaking on the shore. 

Choking back a sob, he reaches for the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey on the bedside table and finishes it off in one swig. He wipes his mouth then scrubs a hand over his face. The bottle slips from his hand and clatters to the floor with no care of whether or not it shatters. It would be fitting, he thinks, if the only crutch holding him up would shatter like his soul. 

A knock at the door is followed almost immediately by Sam, and with him comes a heavy, greasy scent wafting in from the hallway. Bacon, probably. He doesn't have to guess for long. “Morning,” Sam says. “I made breakfast. Eggs and bacon. Made it extra greasy, the way you like. I won't even put up a fight.” 

Dean waves his hand, not bothering to look at his brother. “Not hungry.”

“Dude.” There's a lull, and finally Dean looks up when he realizes Sam won't leave unless he responds. “When was the last time you ate? Or showered, for that matter? It smells like a frat house in here.” Dean almost has the mind to kick his collection of empties under the bed, but he doesn't bother. It’ll do no good, anyway. Sam's observant. 

“Does it matter?” Dean grumbles as he falls back into his pillow, hoping his Sam will take the hint. 

“Yes, Dean, it matters. I gave you your space, I let you wallow, but this stops now. I can't let you do this to yourself. I can't watch you sit here and drink yourself to death.” Sam stomps toward him, yanking at his arm. “Get up. You're getting a shower. You're eating. And I'm washing these sheets. You smell disgusting.” 

“Sam,” Dean warns, shoving Sam’s hands away. He stumbles as he stands, trying to ignore the woozy feeling settling in his stomach. “Just leave me alone. You have no idea what I'm dealing with.”

“Oh, I don't?” Sam's already stripping the bed. “You didn't see me laying around, getting drunk, and wallowing after Jess died, did you? Or after Madison? No, Dean, I handled my shit. You need to do the same.”

Dean scoffs. “They didn't choose it,” he mutters. 

“What?” Sam straightens, dumping the armful of bedding on the floor. 

“They didn't choose to leave you, Sam. They didn't make the conscious decision to just pack up and leave.” Dean’s leaning back against the wall and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Cas left. I loved him, and he… he fucking left.” He hears Sam sigh, but he can’t look up. He can’t look at _that face._ That _I’m here for you, let’s talk about feelings_ face. He hears Sam say his name softly, but still he can’t look up. He can’t see that face.

“Dean,” Sam repeats, and now he’s closer. Sam’s hands settle on his shoulders. “Dean, look at me.” Grudgingly, he does, and there’s that face. He fights the urge to punch it. “I don’t know what happened between you and Cas. Hopefully one day you’ll tell me.” Sam sighs, as if to emphasize his point. “Look, I know it’s hard, but you can’t let yourself fall apart. You’re better than that. You’re better than this. Get up. Shower. Eat. _Work_. Be the Dean Winchester that’s the stuff of legends. Don’t be this. Don’t let yourself be _this_.” 

Dean shrugs off Sam’s hands and stumbles toward the door when he can't take listening to him anymore. He doesn't know how _not_ to be _this_. Cas has been in his life so long now, he doesn't know who he is without Cas. He's filled with regret for all those years he held Cas at a distance, because now he'd give anything to hold Cas close again. It’s those thoughts that leave him sobbing against the tile of the shower, not caring that the water had run cold. Like any time he’s left alone with his thoughts, the memory of that last conversation come flooding back.

 

**_(Three Weeks Earlier)_ **

_“Cas, I’m fine. Really.” Dean gently bats away Cas’s hand, outstretched in the offer of healing. He smiles and leans in for a kiss, burying his fingers in Cas’s hair briefly before pulling back. “I’ve had worse. Trust me, I’ll be okay. I’m gonna go shower. Feel free to join me.”_

_“Dean,” Cas starts as Dean steps past him. “I should have been there to stop them. This is my fault.”_

_Turning, Dean rolls his shoulder and winces at the ache that’s settling in. The angels did a number on him, that's for damn sure. Nothing he hasn't had before. “This ain't your fault, Cas. You might be an angel, but you're not like those dick bags with wings. How can you think this is your fault? You didn't sic ‘em on us. You ain't responsible for every rogue angel out there. We're Winchesters. We're used to not winnin' the popularity contest... Don't beat yourself up.”_

_Cas is frowning. It's not an uncommon feature, but it's one Dean dislikes. If he had it his way, Cas would always be smiling. It's a dazzling thing to see. He remembers the first time he saw it, and he remembers thinking it's something he wanted to see more. “They…” Cas heaves a breath, seemingly steeling himself for carrying on. “Those angels came after you because of me. Because…” When Cas hesitates, Dean steps into his space, settling his hands on the angel’s hips. “Because of our relationship.”_

_“So what? There's always gonna be something. It's just the life we lead. It's never gonna change, Cas.”_

_If anything, Cas’s frown deepens. Silently, he lifts his hands to Dean's face, and Dean leans into it. They press their foreheads together. “What's goin’ on in that head of yours, huh? Cas, Talk to me.” He ventures a soft kiss to Cas’s lips. He watches Cas inhale and exhale slowly. He tightens his grip._

_“You're safer away from me, Dean.” It comes as a whisper. Dean wants to pretend he didn't hear it. He wants to have misheard. He wants this to not be real._

_“Cas, what…” he pulls back to take in Cas’s face, and he knows he didn't mishear. He knows Cas didn't misspeak. “No. What the hell would make you think that? You-- You're wrong.”_

_When Cas steps out of his grip, Dean feels like sobbing. He feels like a part of him -- a limb, his heart, you pick -- is being slowly ripped from his body. “Everywhere I go, carnage follows. Every decision I make is the wrong one--”_

_“Then whatever stupid decision you're about to make, know that it's the wrong one,” Dean warns._

_Cas carries on, Dean’s words falling into the void. “Whenever I'm around, you -- or Sam -- get hurt. You're a target because of me. You’ll always be a target because of me.”_

_Dean squares his shoulders. “What are you tryin’ to say, Cas?”_

_With a heavy sigh and tears in his eyes, Cas finally meets Dean’s. “I'm leaving.”_

_“For how long?” Dean blinks, incredulous._

_“For good.”_

_A tire iron to the kneecap would, at this very moment, feel as inconsequential as a mosquito bite. Dean's been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, possessed, thrown through windows. He’s sustained a heart attack, and been ripped to pieces by a Hellhound. He's died more than once. He spent forty years in Hell. Nothing, not one single experience in his entire existence, has ever been more painful than Cas’s words._

_“I'm certain,” Cas continues, and every single word is like a new blow to the stomach, “that this is the only correct decision I'll make. If anything were to happen to you, Dean, on account of my mistakes… I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”_

_“Cas…” It's choked out in a sob; a sad, pathetic little thing Dean didn't know he was capable of until this moment. He finds himself barreling forward to grip Cas's face. “Don't do this. Please.” He's begging now. He has a reputation -- he's the great Dean Winchester. The righteous man. The legendary hunter. The man who couldn't stay dead. None of that matters now, though. Now, he's a sobbing mess, desperate to hold onto the one goddamn thing he's ever truly known happiness with; known love with. “I love you. Goddamn it, Cas, I **love** you! Doesn't that mean anything to you?”_

_As calmly as if he were brushing away a fly, Cas shakes out of Dean’s grip and steps back. He's steadfast, holding Dean’s gaze. “It means **everything** , Dean. And that's why I have to go.”_

_Dean blinks, less than half a second, and with a soft rustle of feathers, Cas is gone. The gravity of it all hits him, like the weight of the world crashing down on top of him. Sam finds him later - minutes? Hours? - doubled over on his knees, sobbing into the library floor. It takes him a full three days to mutter any indication to Sam of what transpired: “He's gone,” he'd whispered into his pillow when Sam came to drag him to the shower._

 

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, still rubbing the water from his hair. He managed to drag on clean, albeit ratty, sweatpants and a t-shirt after his shower, thus ensuring one less thing for Sam to nag him about. He settles at the table, but doesn't muster enough energy to tuck into the eggs and bacon Sam's heaped on the plate in front of him. “Not hungry,” he mumbles. He does, however, reach for the coffee Sam sets down. 

“Dean, you have to eat something. How long are you gonna keep up like this?” He huffs at Dean's noncommittal shrug. “Okay, that's it.” He yanks the mug out of Dean’s hands, ignoring the mess the sloshing makes, and sits down beside him. “What the hell happened between you? You seemed fine. You seemed happy. What gives?”

“I told you, Sammy. He left. What more do you need to know?”

“ _Why_ did he leave? What reason did he give? It doesn't make sense.”

Dean buries his face in his hands, as if that will end this conversation. He's certain, after a moment or two of Sam staring at him, that the conversation won't end until he gives an answer. He finally gives in and lowers his hands. “He says I'm safer away from him. We,” he gestures between them, “are safer away from him. So he left.” That's the end of it -- he leaves Sam with more questions than answers when he leaves the kitchen. He retreats to the solace of his bedroom and doesn’t leave until he’s forced to again a few days later.

 **May**

It takes a full two months after that confession in the kitchen for Dean to pick up a gun again. Daily life is slowly returning to normal -- at least as normal as can be without Cas. Sam finds a case, and though he initially presents it as a solo job, Dean offers to tag along. Sam is taken by surprise, of course, but seems pleased. It’s a ‘milk run’ for them -- a Wendigo down in Branson. They take care of it in less than thirty-six hours, and Dean’s back in the library sipping whiskey at midnight. He’s still dressed, shoes and all, as he scrolls through the news on his laptop. Sam’s more impressed that he’s using a glass than anything else. 

“I’m heading to bed,” Sam announces. He waits a beat, and Dean nods. “You staying up?”

Again, Dean nods. “Not tired. Gonna see if I can catch us another case.” He ventures a look at his brother before turning his eyes back to the screen. “Night, Sam.”

“Night, Dean.” Dean hears the hesitation in Sam’s voice but ignores it. He knows what Sam’s thinking. It’s another coping mechanism. It’s not healthy. He’s traded sleeping for days and a steady diet of whiskey and beer for insomnia and cases, punctuated with a burger and his good old pal Jack Daniels here and there. It sure as hell **is** a coping mechanism, but he’ll call it a triumph that he showered this morning and he’s wearing clean clothes. 

**October**

In the weeks and months that follow, life without Cas becomes a little easier. Dean finds himself smiling. Once or twice, he even cracks a joke. They’re terrible jokes, but Sam laughs without making that bitch face -- probably because he thinks he still needs to be coddled; that he still needs to be handled with kid gloves.

He has hard days. Once, he bumped into a dark-haired man wearing a tan trench coat in Smith Center, and he subsequently spent the afternoon sobbing into a bottle of Jack in his room. He feels an ache every time he handles an angel blade. But he’s surviving. He’s functioning. 

He smiles his way through dinners with Sam and Eileen. He’s not going to let his misery dampen his little brother’s happiness. She’s around a lot more these days, but he has no complaints. He likes Eileen -- she’s funny, she’s useful on a hunt, and she clearly loves his brother. 

In quiet moments, he finds himself looking back fondly on memories with Cas -- little moments here and there. Sometimes, they make him smile. Others make him cry. 

“Cas, c’mon. Just pick a flavor,” he remembers one evening while enjoying a bowl of rocky road in his room. 

“But there are so many,” Cas had said. Dean remembers the huff when he'd plopped his chin on Cas's shoulder and wrapped his arms around Cas’s waist. 

“Mint chocolate chip, then,” he decided. “It's _my_ personal favorite, and I'll be kissing it off your lips later, anyway. It's a two-for-one-treat.” Dean smiles fondly, remembering the way the stubble of Cas's cheek felt against his lips, and the soft moan when he kissed away any argument Cas may have made. 

_Yeah_ , he thinks with a bittersweet smile, _we had it good together_. 

**January**

Dean sits at the kitchen table, staring down at the store bought pie with a candle unceremoniously shoved in the center. Sam and Eileen had gone to bed hours ago, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts, his whiskey, and his pie. Sam did his best, he knows. He was never big on birthdays, or holidays, for that matter, so this is what Sam had to offer. It’s appreciated, of course. 

He doesn’t have an appetite. He smiled his way through dinner and the cupcake Eileen brought him. It means the world to him that they made such an effort, but all he can think about is Cas. He’s forty and alone. While that’s old age for most hunters, he can’t help mourning what he had. What he thought would be the rest of his life, once he finally had it.

“Good morning, Dean.” He remembers waking to soft kisses pressed to the base of his hair, to his neck, to his cheek. He remembers the feeling of warm hands sliding over his waist. He remembers the warmth of a body pressed to his back. “Happy birthday.”

Dean had blinked away the sleep and rolled over, meeting that sea of blue. “Mornin’, sunshine.” He’d buried his hands in that mess of dark hair, and pulled him in for a sweet, lingering kiss -- sleep-warm and happy. 

“I have a gift for you,” Cas told him.

Dean pulled him close, sweeping his hands beneath the faded t-shirt that used to be his own. “Only gift I need is you, Cas,” he murmured, nuzzling his nose into the scruff of Cas’s neck. He pressed kisses there, and along Cas’s jaw. He remembered the sound Cas made when he did that, every time. He loved that sound. 

“It’s your birthday,” Cas said, pushing Dean to his back and insinuating himself between his legs. He kissed his way up Dean’s chest and his neck, lingering for a brief moment to nip at Dean’s earlobe -- just the way he liked, “who am I to argue with your desire?”

Later, when they had finally managed to separate themselves from the bed, Cas led Dean down the hallway to the kitchen. He’d been so proud of what Dean found on the table: a messily constructed homemade pie with a candle invoking the Leaning Tower of Pisa in the center. “I used the iPad Sam gave me, and found a recipe. It’s apple… your favorite.”

“Dude… You,” Dean spoke slow, hardly believing what he was saying. He was unable to contain a smile. “You made me a pie?” He reached for Cas and pulled him in, hugging him tight. “Damn it, I love you.”

They had sat together in the quiet kitchen, two forks and the pie between them. The pie was disgusting. Cas, of course, didn’t have the same taste as humans. Also, he had misread the amount of salt called for in the recipe. Still, Dean ate it. Because Cas had put so much time and effort into it; into creating his favorite thing, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out or turn it down.

“We’ve never celebrated your birthday,” Dean said, his brow furrowed as he set aside his fork. 

“I don’t really have one.” Dean had watched as Cas wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, as if absorbing the warmth. “I just… came to be.”

“Well,” Dean postulated, “what about… the day you came back as _you_. Not Jimmy. I mean, I know there was some day or point in time where you possessed him, but… I wanna celebrate the day you were you. Chuck brought you back as just _you_. After…” he paused, clearing his throat. “At, uh… At Stull. Why don’t we use that day? May 13th.”

Cas had smiled, almost sadly, as if he knew just how bittersweet that day was for Dean. “If that’s okay with you, I would like that.” 

Dean leaned over the pie and kissed him. “It’s more than okay.” He smiled when Cas grabbed his face, not yet ready to release the kiss. It was one of his favorite things about Cas.

Despite another apple pie this year, it’s just not the same. He looks across the table where Cas had sat, and he feels the tears stinging his eyes. “Forty,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It sounds sadder than he thought, falling into the void of the quiet kitchen, getting lost in the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic clunk of the ancient heat chugging to life overhead. No, he decides, this is definitely not what he thought his life would be.

**March**

A year after Cas, Sam and Dean find themselves deep in the throes of a deadly hunt. Sam’s certain Dean’s on a suicide mission, given the anniversary, but Dean insists he’s fine. He’ll always insist he's fine. Even when he's not. It's been a year. It's been exactly three hundred and sixty five days. He know because he's been counting. Even when he says he's moved on, he's still counting the days. He's marking in his memory every experience, every moment he's had without Cas by his side. If, my some miracle, Dean’s ass is on the guest list for heaven, he knows what it'll be. A life with Cas -- or a likeness of him, at least. He'll get to relive it all with Cas. He knows that. He's certain of it. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or five years from now. But one day, maybe he'll get his peace. After everything he's given, maybe in the end he'll get his reward. 

He doesn't see the blade coming, but he feels it for a few seconds. The blinding, white-hot pain that sears through his body. Words are scrambled. His vision is hazy. He thinks he hears Sam screaming for him. Then there's nothing. It's dark, wherever he is. He thinks he hears water. On the horizon, the sun begins to rise, and he realizes where he is: the lake he goes to in his dreams; the lake that brings him comfort in times of stress. He's on the dock, a fishing rod and tackle box beside him. 

“Hello, Dean.” The voice comes from behind, and it feels like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer; a warm drink on a cold winter’s day; it feels like coming home. 

When he turns, he finds Cas. _His_ Cas, watching him from the end of the dock. His hands are in his pockets, his hair mussed as always. “Cas,” Dean breathes. He stands and hurries forward, nearly stumbling over the tackle box. “You're here. Am I…” he barely stops in front of Cas, wrapping his arms around him to pull him in. He breathes in deep, clinging to this moment. He has no energy to be angry. All he wants is Cas, regardless of his mistakes. “I'm dead, aren't I? This is Heaven? _My_ Heaven?” He buries his face in Cas’s neck; his fingers in Cas's hair. 

Frowning, Cas shakes his head and steps out of Dean’s grasp. “No. You're not dead. Not yet, anyway.” Cas hesitates, and Dean grips the front of his trench coat. He can't bear the idea of letting go. Not again. “Sam called me. I--”

“Cas,” Dean pleads through tears. He shifts, taking Cas’s face in his hands. “Listen to me. I don't care why you're here. Or where we are. I--” he inhales, closing his eyes to press his forehead to Cas’s. “Jesus, Cas, I need you. I've missed you so much I can't--”

“Dean, listen to me.” Cas rocks back enough for Dean to meet his eyes. “We don't have a lot of time. You're not dead yet, but you will be soon if I don't heal you.”

“So just do it, Cas, I don't--”

“I'm giving you a choice. If you let go now, you'll be okay. You'll go to Heaven; I've made sure of it. Despite my lack of popularity, I've… I’ve done what’s necessary and ensured your entry. But if I heal you, I won’t--”

“Don't say it, Cas. Please. Please don't do this again. Don't leave me again. I need you. You have no idea how much I need you. How much I've always fucking needed you. Why can't you understand that? Why, Cas? Why can't you fucking see it?”

“Dean.” Cas’s voice is firm. His gaze is steadfast, and Dean feels the pain all over again. It’s as if nothing of their relationship matters; as if the last decade of camaraderie, friendship, and love was a waste of time. “We don’t have much time. Do you want me to save you?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean shoves Cas away and runs a hand over his mouth. “You were _it_ for me, Cas! You-- I loved you more than I’ve ever loved any godforsaken thing in my crap pile of a life. And you’re standin’ here, acting like none of it mattered. Like we didn’t have what we had! ”

“Of _course_ it matters!” Cas’s resolve breaks, and the magnitude of his outburst startles Dean. “Damn it, Dean! Of course it matters to me.” He growls, running a hand through his hair, tugging in frustration. When Cas closes the gap between them, Dean stumbles but recovers when he grabs hold of the angel. The kiss is bruising and harsh, but it’s the most alive Dean’s felt in a year. Cas is here. Dean’s arms are around him, his lips are against Cas’s. “You matter to me, Dean,” Cas breathes when their lips finally part. His fingers are buried in Dean’s hair. He shifts, running a thumb over Dean’s cheek, and Dean leans into it. “In my millennia of existence, nothing has mattered more to me than you.”

“Then _stay_ , Cas,” Dean pleads, tightening his grip on Cas’s waist, pulling him closer. “Goddammit, Cas,” his voice is breaking again, “stay with me. _Please_.” 

“Dean--”

“Cas, listen to me. I spent almost thirty years thinkin’ angels didn’t exist. Then you rescued me. You saved me, and I learned to have faith… I’ve prayed to you for years. You’ve always been there for me. You’ve always found me. I’m askin’ you now, please. I don’t give a shit how pathetic I sound. I don’t give a shit about anything but you. I love you, Cas, and fuck -- I need you with me. I’m always gonna need you.”

“Dean--”

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Dean’s eyelids feel heavy. Despite every effort, he doesn’t have the strength to open them. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton-wrapped sand. There’s an ache in his ribs and a throbbing in his head. In the distance, he hears familiar voices. 

“You actually showed up.” Sam scoffs. It sounds like Sam. He sounds angry. Incredulous. Dean can imagine his face.

“I came as soon as you called. I needed to--”

“Are you kidding me? He’s here because of you. Because you--”

“I know, Sam. I know. I know you’re angry, and… it’s warranted. But… You called me.” Cas sighs. “I saw him -- I… I went to him. In his dream world. I spoke to him.” 

“You-- Calling you was a reflex, okay? I didn’t think. It’s just what we’ve always done.” Sam huffs. “But… Cas, you listen to me. Pick one. You either stay with him or you leave us the hell alone. Dean was a mess after you left, and I'm not gonna let you screw with him by popping up at your convenience, only to take off again.”

“Sam…” Dean recognizes a third voice. It's softer; gentler. Eileen, he decides. 

“No,” Sam continues. “No. After everything you and Dean have been through. Everything you've done for each other, he doesn't deserve this. He loves you, Cas. He never stopped, even after you left. So make up your damn mind.”

“Cas…” Dean swallows against the dryness in his throat, and with nearly every ounce of strength he has, he opens his eyes, blinking in the bright lights of the hospital room. 

“I'm here, Dean.” Through the blurriness, he Dean sees the unmistakable figure move toward him. A familiar hand closes around his own, and Cas's forehead is pressed to his. “I'm here,” Cas whispers. 

“You came back.” Dean's voice is weak, and tears are stinging his eyes. He closes them and reaches up to grip the back of Cas's head. He knows they have an audience, but he doesn’t care. 

“Sam,” he hears Eileen say softly. She must sign the rest, because a moment later, he hears Sam clear his throat and announce that they’ll be waiting outside. 

When they’re gone, Cas kisses Dean slowly, as if savoring the feeling. He rocks back, settling on the edge of the bed. Dean grips his arm, terrified to let him go. “You’re really here?” he asks, his eyes scanning Cas’s face now that his vision has finally cleared. 

Cas smiles, and Dean feels a wave of warmth. “I’m really here.”

“And are you--”

“I’m staying, Dean.” Cas shifts, adjusting his coat. “I was foolish to have left you. My reasons were selfish. I was scared. I thought… I thought if I could keep a threat away from you, you would be okay. That I could live knowing you were alright. I was wrong. Every moment away from you has been agony, but I couldn't bear coming back to you and seeing you in pain. I've heard your prayers. I've felt your pain. Every day. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I--”

“Cas, stop. Just stop, okay? You're here. That's what matters. I'm too tired to hash this crap out right now. We’ll talk. We’ll figure it all out. Eventually. For now…” He slides his hand down Cas's sleeve to squeeze his hand. “Promise me you're not going anywhere, and that's all I need.” 

Cas meets his eyes, and Dean can see the tear swimming; threatening to fall. “I promise, Dean.” 

“Good.” Dean clears his throat and winces, shifting in an attempt to sit upright. “For now, can you patch me up so I can get outta here?” 

“Of course.” Cas chuckles and reaches out, pressing his palm to Dean’s cheek. Dean leans into it, desperate to cling to that familiar feeling. It’s been too long. He closes his eyes and breathes in as the coolness of Cas’s grace flows through him, mending his wounds and clearing his ailments. “Better?”

Dean opens his eyes and grins. “Better.” He surges forward for a kiss, burying his fingers in Cas’s hair. “Let’s go home.” 

**May**

It takes some getting used to, having Cas back. In some ways, it’s as if he was never gone. In others, in matters of the heart, there was still healing to be done. The damage was not irreparable, but it wasn’t a wound that Cas could simply heal with a touch of grace. It was one that would take time, and little by little, it would mend. 

“Mornin’, Sunshine.” Dean presses a kiss to the nape of Cas’s neck and grins at the noise he makes. Cas sleeps more and more these days, and it’s endearingly human. Dean’s not quite sure of the details or the mechanics of it all, but his understanding is it’s something akin to putting a device in battery-saving mode. It’s like Cas flipped a switch and he’s simultaneously human and angel. They don’t talk about it much, but he’s pretty sure it’s a form of peace offering on Cas’s part; a way for them to spend their life together on a relatively-even playing field. 

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas murmurs, pressing back against Dean. 

Dean envelops him and sighs, nosing Cas’s hair as he tugs him closer. “I have a surprise for you,” he whispers, nipping at Cas’s ear. “But you gotta get outta bed.” He laughs at the petulant groan. “Fine,” Dean concedes, kissing Cas’s stubbled jaw. “I’ll bring the surprise to you. Stay here.” He extracts himself from bed and ducks out of the room. When he returns a few minutes later, he finds Cas sitting up, running his hands through his messy hair. It only manages to make it messier, and the sight melts Dean’s heart.

“Happy Birthday, Cas.” He sets a plate on the bedside table and settles on the edge of the bed, letting his eyes roam over Cas: his bare chest, his face, the two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. 

“What?” Cas looks simultaneously thrilled and perplexed.

“Happy Birthday,” Dean repeats. He nods toward the plate. Atop it sits a slice of honey cake: layer-upon-layer of fluffy, golden cake and sweet cream with honey drizzled on top. In the center is a single candle. He takes in the curious look on Cas’s face, and doesn’t let him wonder long. “It’s honey cake,” he announces. “I…” he pauses, shrugging a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “I found a recipe and whipped it up. I know you like honey, so I thought it would be perfect for you.”

“Dean…”

“And we talked about celebrating your birthday. But we weren’t… We, uh…” He clears his throat and sighs. “It’s May 13th. So… Happy Birthday, Cas.” He doesn’t protest when Cas leans forward to kiss him. In fact, he leans into it, cupping Cas’s face in his hands. 

“I love you,” Cas murmurs as they part. He’s smiling, looking down at the candle. 

“Make a wish and blow it out,” Dean prompts. He watches Cas, unable to rid himself of his goofy smile. When Cas blows out the candle, he chuckles. “Hope your wish comes true.”

Cas raises his eyes to Dean’s and furrows his brow. It’s classic Cas, and Dean feels his stomach flutter. “It already has.” 

**September**

Dean drapes his arm around Cas’s shoulder and grins, watching Sam say “I do” to Eileen beneath the Green Ash tree in Jody’s back yard. It’s not official or legal in any way, of course, but it’s the ceremony of it. They’ve chosen to spend their lives with each other. _Settle down with someone who understands the life_ , as Sam put it a few years back. Their few remaining friends are here -- Dean, Cas, Jody, Claire, and Alex. Donna made the drive just in time. She was always helpful to them, and treated them with kindness and respect; they couldn’t imagine not inviting her. It’s a happy, low-key celebration after the quick ceremony -- they enjoy beer and pizza, and settle around a bonfire after nightfall. 

When the group finally scatters to help Jody tidy up, Sam finds Dean watching the fire, a nearly-empty bottle of beer in his hand. “Hey,” Sam greets him, nudging his brother with a smirk.

“Hey yourself,” Dean says, finishing off the beer. “Think this one’ll stick?” he teases, wincing as soon as the words leave his mouth. He shudders at the thought of Becky and her creepy love spell. It’s not something they talk about often. Or ever. He’s not even sure why he brought it up now. Sam’s face says it all. “Okay, point taken. Sorry.” He holds up his hands in surrender.

Sam waves him off and runs a hand through his hair. “Everything alright?” he asks.

Dean nods, stuffing his free hand in his pocket. “‘Course. Just watched my baby brother marry an awesome chick. I got my… I got Cas. I got my friends. Why wouldn't everything be alright?”

Sam shrugs. “You ever think about it?”

“Think about what? Marriage?” Dean laughs. “Sammy, he's not even human. He's an immortal, celestial being who--”

“Chose to fall for you. He chose you over _Heaven_ , Dean. Maybe he wants a normal human existence. Our lives aren't exactly normal, but this--” he gestures behind him to the group of people on the deck-- “is about as normal as we're gonna get.” Sam nudges Dean’s shoulder with his fist and smiles. “Just think about it.”

**January**

“Dean? Why are you up so early?” 

Dean turns from his seat at his desk. He smiles, taking in the sight of Cas sitting up in bed -- sleepy, shirtless, and all his. “Just thinking,” he says. In the months since his conversation with Sam after the wedding, and Sam and Eileen’s surprise announcement of an upcoming addition to the Winchester family, he's found himself _thinking_ a lot. They - all of them - are in a place in life he never thought he'd see. His baby brother is happy and in love and starting the family he's always so desperately wanted. Dean has finally found peace and grounding in Cas. It's ironic, if he really thinks about it: the angel who keeps his feet on the ground. They're settled. They're happy. He and Sammy; they've found what they've been searching for -- compromise. They didn't have to turn their backs on their destiny; on the life they were born to live. Instead, they've found people to fight by their side, to keep them safe, to show them love and mercy and understanding. 

With a smile, he pushes John’s journal aside and makes his way back to the bed, crawling in beside Cas. He settles comfortably, dropping a kiss to Cas's shoulder. 

“Is everything alright?”

Dean smiles against Cas's warm skin. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Cas tilts his head, pressing his temple to Dean's head. “It's your birthday,” he says quietly, settling his hand over Dean’s on his chest. “What do you want?”

Lifting his head, Dean grins. “I'm glad you asked.” He shifts, leaning back on his elbow to reach into his nightstand, retrieving a small wooden box. When he sits back up, he pops the lid and holds it in front of Cas. Nestled inside are two rings. They're understated, simple polished titanium. “You, Cas. You're what I want. Now, always, forever. If you'll have me.”

With tears in his eyes, Cas nods, leaning in for a kiss. “Of course, Dean. Now. Always. Forever.”


End file.
